“And I am no goddess, am I?”
“Well, you are more like one 1 am acquainted with than I care to admit.”
She giggled. “Fine. You be dark Mars, and I shall be Venus, and we will make a mock of earthly Kings. I love you, Dylan, for my dreams of you were joyous, too.” “Life is not a dream.”
“Are you quite certain?”
Dylan considered his adventures for a moment. “No,” he answered.
“Then bed me and wed me, that we may know our joy together.”
“It is usually done in the other order, and we do not have a priest.” He could not help chuckling.
“Hush, or she will conjure one out of his bed, vestments and all.”
“I do believe she would.” He took her hand and kissed the palm. Her fingers caressed his cheek and the smell of her skin was sweet with lavender. Dylan took a long, deep breath and picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.
XIX
Dylan opened his eyes and gazed down at the tangle of golden hair that rested on his chest. Aenor was coiled around him, a leg across his so he could feel the silky nest of her pleasure against his hip, one hand curled around the scar on his shoulder, as if she feared he would vanish while she slept. He had been eager and a little clumsy, he thought, and he had been startled by her responses. She was like some fine horse, long trained for a contest and now finally allowed to run the course. She had run it several times, until he was quite exhausted. The doubts still gnawed at him, especially since King Louis was close by, but he found he had no regrets.
I should hope not. I thought you would never cease dallying about, young Dylan. You were made for her, and she for you, just as your parents joined by intention, so do stop your infernal fretting. It is noisy.
There was no mistaking the acerbic mental voice of the Lady of the Willows. Am I just some pawn in your games, Sal? A healthy stallion?
Do you love her?
Yes!
It was intended that you should wed her, but no god could make you love her. That is entirely your own doing. Now, do stop complaining because you like the task we gave you. Mortals! Sal almost snorted with contempt and
left Dylan to some solemn ruminations on fate and will. What if I had not loved her? he thought in the peculiar agony of mind he shared with his father. He tightened his grip around Aenor’s shoulders, and she stirred, yawned, and stretched like a kitten.
“Good morning, husband.”
“Am I that?”
“I consider you so, and I will scratch out the eyes of any woman who casts a glance at you, and kill any man who attempts to stand between us.”
“So fierce for so early in the day,” he teased.
“I almost died when that beast swallowed you in the caverns.” She clutched his upper arm and her nails dug into the bare flesh a little and she trembled. She took several breaths, and spoke in a voice strained with emotion. “We shall name our first son Geoffrey, after my father.”
“That settles it, of course,” Dylan answered, holding back both laughter and a strange desire to weep. He was almost afraid of her intensity and did not doubt she would carry out her threats against possible interference. He was not certain he wanted to be loved so deeply, and he was sure he was not worthy of it, no matter how many goddesses said otherwise. “You already have a nephew of that name, by the way.”
“It does not matter. All the . . . the real virtu in my family is in the women.”
Dylan roared with laughter, as much because he believed her as to relieve his tension. If even half the tales told of her famous grandmother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, were true, she had been a perfectly terrifying female. Like his own mother, he realized quietly.
“Get up, woman. We cannot lie abed all day. Stop that, you wretch.” She did not, and Dylan lost his thoughts in the wonder of her hair cascading around his face like a golden waterfall. He rose to the occasion and surrendered to the inevitable with as much chivalric grace as he could muster on an empty stomach. It was some time later when he said, “Shall we go see what milady has stolen for breakfast?” They both laughed and hugged, reluctant to return to the world.
They emerged from the bed curtains and Dylan looked with disfavor on his dirty and travel-torn hose. The soft shoes were simply beyond aid, and he was beginning to wonder if he would end the adventure mother-naked. The gown Aenor had worn was carefully laid across one of the high-backed chairs, the sword’s green hilt gleaming under its folds, and he was surprised that he had managed to take such care in the midst of his passion.
“Perhaps, macushla, I should just become a horse and bear you in triumph to Angers. These are hardly fit for a swine,” he added, holding up the offending garments. “And it would solve the problem of footwear.”
“What?”
“I just said—”
‘ ‘What did you call me?’ ’
“Macushla? ’Tis what my father calls my mother. It is Irish for ‘my heart,’ I think.”
“Am I? Your heart?” Aenor was urgent.
“What is it, love?” He reached out and folded his arms around her.
“I . . . just felt a coldness, as if someone stood between us.” She pressed against him, frightened, her skin goose-flesh under his hand.
Dylan could sense nothing, but he knew that sort of magicking was not his gift. He pondered and finally felt a slight aching on his forehead, where Louis had marked him with the cross. Brenna had said he was coming, and if the King was indulging in some wizardry, Dylan supposed he might have noticed himself and the woman. Of course, Louis would know Aenor for who she was, now that she was outside the spells of the White Folk, and of course he would think in terms of alliances, not love. “You are my heart, my life, my breath. Now, where is the fierce warrior-maid who was going to slay dragons and even Kings if they got in her path?”
“There.” Aenor pointed at the small patch of dried blood that lay revealed on the bedclothes. “I am maid no more, and who ever heard of a fierce matron?” She sounded a little sad, and Dylan knew it for the tristesse that sometimes follows passion.
He kissed her once, then gave her bare bottom a playful slap. “My mother, dear Aenor, beloved Alianora, fought her way the length and breadth of Albion with me tucked up in her belly. You feel unlike yourself, as I did when the beast first came within me. It will pass.”
“I do, yes. But it is more than that. There was something/”
“I do not doubt it. I shall make you a bargain. When we meet a man—or a woman—who would come between us, you may have the first stroke.” As he spoke Dylan knew that in their joining a portion of her power had become his. He glanced at the sword hilt which gleamed greenly in the faint light, and for a moment he hated the thing and the deities who used him for their own purposes. It was his for the taking now and he wished no part of it.
Aenor followed his glance and her eyes widened. She slipped from his arms and disentangled the sword from the folds of the white gown. She held it towards him. “This is my bride-gift, for the man I love.”
Dylan stared at her, nude and glorious, holding the sword just below the great jewel. “You are all the bride-gift I shall ever want, my Aenor. Let us give that troublesome jewel to God instead. It is a trumpery thing compared to you, my pearly lady.” They had called her that, once, the Pearl of Brittany.
“That is a pretty refusal. Do you not want the sword?” She looked both pleased and irritated.
“No. I have all that I will ever desire—except some clean hose and a decent pair of boots.”
Aenor laughed. “Are you never serious?” She reached for the shift and set the sword down.
“Good boots are a very serious matter, my lady, let me tell you.” Her giggle was muffled in the folds of cloth as she slipped the undergown over her head. “Perhaps I can persuade our kindly hostess to steal me some.”
Aenor’s head emerged, golden ringlets in mad disarray. “You are quite mad—and I love you for it.” She danced forward, twined her arms
around his neck, and kissed him passionately. Then she slipped away to complete her toilet, and Dylan slipped into the loathsome hose, belted his sword around his waist, and prepared to face the day.
The door of the room was not locked, and the smell of cooking meat floated across the great hall. For the first time since he had begun shape-shifting, Dylan did not find the odor nauseating, and he was ravenously hungry. They found their way back to the kitchen.
Brenna was seated at the table, consuming eggs, thick chops, and bread at an amazing pace. Her eyes were ringed with shadows, and her hair was even more dishevelled. She looked utterly exhausted, and gestured them to be seated without ceasing to eat.
Dylan shooed a nest of cats off the bench and he and Aenor sat down. There was a platter of chops, a pot of porridge, boiled eggs, beer, and bread upon the board, and they fell to without amenities. The beer he found thin, watery stuff, compared to good Albionese ale, but he had no complaint for the rest, except for the lack of salt.
Brenna finished her repast, pushed her trencher away, and gave a resounding belch. “I had forgotten how hungry making magics gets one. Ah, I am not as young as I once was. Did you . . . sleep?” Her curiosity was almost lewd.
Aenor grinned widely. “A little. But do you not do magic every day?”
“Yes, but not making magic. A bit of crystal gazing and thievery is child’s play, but to create something out of almost nothing, that is wearying indeed.” Brenna gave a slow smile. “1 have not enjoyed myself so much in | decades.”
Dylan slurped a little beer and regarded the last egg on his trencher. “My lady, is there a bit of salt for this one last hen fruit?”
Brenna shuddered. “No. We . . . cannot abide the stuff.” “Your pardon. I did not know.”
“Of course you did not. Now, finish your food and we will see if my makings suit your fancy. I am afraid I got rather carried away.”
Brenna led them into a curving stairwell and up into a little tower. Her crystal sat upon a table, and there were benches littered with flagons and bottles of every description, plus bits of cloth and bundles of herbs, little jars with unknown powders, and the reek of tomcat that almost drowned the senses. The floor was a-crawl with the beasts— sleeping, sitting, wrestling, and washing. They regarded Dylan with adoring eyes and dozens trooped over to rub against his legs and beg for caresses.
The chatelaine pulled an awkward bundle up off the floor and balanced it on the table while she untied a knot of cloth. She tugged out several garments and spread them over the table, covering the crystal.
“This, dear Alianora, is for you. I used the rags of your old gown in it, for it seemed a shame to waste the spider silk. I can say that no gown like this has ever existed in the world before or will again, and it was a real challenge to combine the world below and this above into a harmonious whole.” She spoke with quiet pride as she held out a remarkable blue garment. It was utterly plain, without a hint of decoration, and it fell in the heavy drape of good Flemish wool. The surface, however, shone as no wool ever had, like satin, a vivid blue that almost pained the eye.
Aenor took it, rubbing the fabric between her fingers curiously. “Thank you, Brenna. You are very kind, and I cannot think how I can ever return the favor.” She leaned
forward, embraced the woman, and kissed her warmly on the cheek.
Brenna sighed and leaned against Aenor, her eyes closing, and an expression something like ecstasy lighting the exhausted face. Tears welled under the eyelids and rolled down her long face. Her lips trembled, and Aenor cast a puzzled look at Dylan as she continued to hold the woman. He shrugged.
“Your touch is thanks enough. I cannot remember when 1 last felt the warmth of affection.” Her voice was very low, quavering the unspoken emotions, and Dylan thought of Melusine, haunted by the past and utterly alone. It seemed a horrible fate to be unwanted, unloved, and forgotten, and he had a sudden fear that he might somehow lose Aenor. The gods could be cruel in a fashion he could barely fathom, or kind for no reason at all. He made fervent prayer that they would continue to smile upon his ventures, and that he would never suffer the unutterable loneliness of this sad lady.
Brenna recovered herself, patted Aenor’s face. “And why should 1 not be kind to my kin? I puzzled over it last night, and 1 think you are niece to me—or the daughter 1 wish I might have borne. Now, we must get on. My vile cousin Pers Morel draws nigh. Vengeance is a dreadful burden.” She withdrew gracefully from Aenor’s embrace and turned back to the table.
The chatelaine then picked up another garment, shook it out, and held it against her shoulders. Dylan stared at a large tunic which appeared to be made entirely of silver birch leaves. It looked both smooth and unsmooth, as if the edges of the leaves were curling out of the cloth, and it almost dazzled his eyes.
“This,” Brenna began, “is my masterpiece. It will hide you in the woods and it will keep you from the harms of magic, though it will not turn aside the blade of a sword. But, if you change while wearing it, it will not rend or tear, but will change to a garland round your throat. I cannot have you running around half naked—pretty as your chest is—because it would not reflect well on the family.” He heard the faint amusement in her words.
Dylan lifted the lady up by the armpits, as if she was a child’s doll, and kissed her full on the mouth, like some tavern lightskirt. Brenna stiffened, startled, then she wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his buss enthusiastically, tangling the sleeves of his new tunic around his throat. He set her down and her cheeks were flushed with color. Aenor was glaring at him in a perfectly scandalized manner and he imagined she would give him a rare scold as soon as they were out of earshot. He did not care.
They dressed in the new garments, and Brenna presented Dylan with fresh hose, stolen from the blacksmith, she said, and a pair of worn but serviceable boots as well. They pinched his toes a little, but he was willing to suffer the discomfort. The cats interfered constantly, until Dylan commanded them to behave, and the chatelaine laughed at their outraged expressions as they obeyed.
“I have one small, final gift for you, Dylan. It is no more than a token.” She held out a tiny figure of an orange cat, cunningly made so as to appear almost alive, small green stones gleaming in its eye sockets, and the pink enamelled tongue curling in a yawn. “Any man who can make my cats behave ought to have it.”
“Thank you. It is a marvel, and so are you.” He bent and kissed her hands.
They returned to the great hall, dim and gloomy with its great hangings. Brenna took them to the huge door, and they stood awkwardly, eager to be gone and reluctant to leave.
“Off with you now. I cannot bear long farewells.” Brenna’s voice was falsely cheerful. They each kissed her again and walked outside into a golden glade full of the afternoon sun. Several birds chattered in the trees, and a squirrel ran up to Dylan.
“I suppose she could not manage the horses Aenor said quietly.
“Or the donkeys,” Dylan added, as they began to walk across the soft grass, the squirrel darting in and out ova Dylan’s boots.
“Why did you kiss her like that?”
“Because I found that to love and be alone was a terrible thing. She hurt my heart.” He struggled to find words and turned back to look at the door through which they had just passed. “What?”
Aenor followed his look and they both stared at a tiny cottage, a thatch-roofed stone building not much higher than Dylan’s head, dilapidated and deserted looking except for a small curl of smoke above the single chimney. It could not have held a hall or tapestries, and of the tower there was not a glimmer. He remembered that he had not seen a window in Brenna’s home, and thought this was important but could not decide why.
“Now, that is magic,” Aenor offered, clearly impressed. “If she had been ambitious, she could have been a Queen.” “Unfortunately, all she ever wanted was Morel, who is not fit to kiss the hem of her gown.”
Aenor looked at him, touched his face with a so
ft hand. “Love is not always wise.”
“Do you regret your choice?”
“No. I only regret that I will not see you astride a donkey,” she said, and smiled so adoringly Dylan was certain his heart would leap from his chest.
Aenor walked beside him, quiet, pausing from time to time to look at a tree, to listen to a bird or frown at the sky. Finally she asked, “Was it always so grey? The sky? Or is it the season? I thought to see the sun blazing in an azure sky.”
“ ’Tis . . . August,” Dylan answered, after counting the weeks on his fingers, “and if we were in Albion, the sky would be as blue as your eyes. But Franconia still lies in Shadow, though Louis is beginning to change that, and the sky reflects that.”
“I see. The Darkness had come into Iberia when I was . . . younger, but not here, not like this. How shall I count my years of captivity? As nothing, because my body has not aged, or an eternity, because I have learned things not meant for mortals?”
Dylan was disturbed by her tone, as well as by the question. Aenor, like her brother, had spent a season out of time as he knew it, and the world she remembered was probably quite different. It was, he decided, quite confusing, because there appeared to be several sorts of “time” involved, not just the years on the calendar and God’s time, which various priests had assured him were vastly different, but the timeless time of the White Folk, and the halted time of enchantment. His mother would no doubt have an answer or a story or a tale about it.
Dylan took Aenor’s hand and patted it abstractedly while he tried to remember some tale which might illuminate the puzzle, and realized that whenever he thought of his mother, he thought of her stories and little else. I do not know her at all, he thought, and felt a sort of dumb agony that he could have lived two decades with this remarkable woman and have so little of her. Perhaps she had hidden herself in her stories, like some towered scholar, or perhaps he had never tried to get beyond them. She was, he knew, a passionate woman, full of terrors and angers, as was the woman beside him. But he had always ignored those things, and even felt outraged at their emergences. Did his father know Eleanor, he wondered, or had she hidden from him as well? And will Aenor always be somehow remote from me?
Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 02] Page 23
